


This is war

by dr_zook



Category: The Bible, Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Crossover, Trading, devastation, the nature of gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer wants Schwarz being his Four Horsemen to bring down God, or creation, or whatever he fancies. And he fancies quite a lot of things. Flowers, for example.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is war

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nuraya](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nuraya), [Crescentium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescentium/gifts).



> Written for Nuraya's wonderful prompt _Lucifer signs the Schwarz up as his Four Horsemen to bring down God, epic battle impilied._ Schuldig's POV. 
> 
> Title and two sentences borrowed from one of Leonard Cohen's poems. Thank you, man. 
> 
> There are many many hints and puns, you're welcome to read a bit [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_Horsemen_of_the_Apocalypse) before or after, if you're not familiar with Christian Apocalypse.

. : .

I'm quite sure that I don't want to know what's exactly going on with Farfarello: his moans are muffled, and he's steadily whimpering enrapt in my mind. It's unnerving, amongst other things.

And Nagi is sitting there like struck by a lightning. Or a couple of them, actually. Eyes wide, pupils dilated to total blackness. At least I see him breathing.

"The boy could be Famine II," Crawford's most recent business partner drawls with a nod in Prodigy's general direction and lights a cigarette. "It's a anorectic teenager thing, see?"

Crawford just glares at the handsome smoker. The dark-tall-broody type plus a disturbing aura of unease. I know that kind well. He's offering me one of his cigarettes; it's a NIL package, but it doesn't look like I know them. Somehow older, more 1920-like and the burning tobacco is smelling sweeter, a bit like weed. I take one.

And I really ponder why I'm not laughing hysterically since the beginning of this set-up. Crawford can't be serious. Can't. But then– do we have any options? I'm trying to cover my failed amusement by coughing.

Crawford and the the sleek guy are looking at me quizzically. I'm waving _Hi_ with a tortured grin. Can't go any worse, can it.

_It can, sweetheart._ The sudden voice in my head is stirring my entrails and I have to swallow repeatedly in order not to vomit bile allover them. _Trust me on this, flaring youngling._

This voice.

It's achingly beautiful and tears are overflowing my eyes. I can't exclude it. And I'm not sure that's what I want anyway. There are goosebumps allover my skin; I can even sense them at my calves and shoulders.

This is dangerous. _Oh God._

Crawford's guest smiles knowingly and takes a long drag from his cigarette. Bores his dark amber eyes deep into mine. I don't get it why Crawford stays that cool. He must be a devil himself. Maybe the American had been some kind of executive demon all the time? Yeah, that's it. Would explain a lot of things, actually.

Crawford's white suit is as pristine as ever. That's Conquest for you, indeed. I know this more than anyone else.

_Oh, yet you fought so much, Red One._ It's that voice again. _'Power was given to you to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other.'_

I want to scream and smash the glass table between us. I'm still weeping and would like to care about my sodden clothes, but I can't move. It's like there are Kudoh's wires wound around my whole body, keeping me in place. One tiny move, and _snap!_ you're dead meat.

Farfarello is huddled at our guest's feet, playing obliviously with his knife again. The bloodloss makes his skin glisten in a sickeningly pale green already. Nagi still isn't moving so far, but gauze compresses are floating towards the Irishman and applying themselves. The blade falls from weak fingers and streaks blood allover the flokati. Farfarello is panting obscenely excited.

"As you can see, sir: my comrades aren't that stable," Crawford eventually says clearing his throat. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to impose your expectations to them."

_Fuck you,_ I'm thinking in bold, underlined letters. _Both_.

_Well, that's exactly what I'm talking about._ Crawford shoves the glasses up his nose. _Shut up._

The stranger is looking genuinely amused for all the mirth sparkling from his gaze. "I'm aware of that, Mr Crawford. I'm not as careless as you may think." He flicks ash from his cigarette into Farfarello's raringly opened palms. "Let me introduce to you this little trade I had thought of."

I'm afraid. Which is embarrassing, of course. But I am. Fuck, I am. I can't look into the Devil's eyes. I want to be far away, younger, older, anything. Just please, not here, not now.

"I'm listening," Crawford says calmly. He probably already knows how this is going to end. That's why he's dilly-dallying along with Mr Black Threepiece. Fucker.

"You're so very unlike the others. I like that. Yet I'm aware of their, of your advantages. As a team. And what do you say about this: I already gave you my gifts, several years ago. Now it's your turn."

The following silence is clearly his triumph, and the shields around me are faltering and I feel the others' nerves creaking like you can listen to metal bridges when they expand during impossible summer heat.

"We never asked for them," Crawford eventually says. His voice is tinted with the absolute and utter loathing he usually manages to conceal whenever he's around others. Even myself caught only once a mere whiff of teenaged displeasure about his talent. That has been not long after our first meeting; and a lot of things have changed since then.

The other one chuckles, a well-tuned chime amidst this surreal meeting in our living room. "Surprise, Mr Crawford, but that's the nature of gifts." A dog-eared issue of Mauss' _Essai sur le don_ appears on the coffee table. Nagi's one eyebrow lifts and he lets the book float towards his hands, starting to flip through the pages.

Crawford only declares, a bit too daring for my taste: "Then don't ask for reciprocating."

Lucifer smiles benevolently. "Well, I don't have to. You're already walking the paths I've paved for you. Nothing you own or have reached you gained by yourself." His smile dies, his voice becomes thicker and darker, a slight hiss resounds in my ears. "Don't think you would manage on your own."

A vision hits me like a heavy duty vehicle, without warning horns or blinding headlights. If that's how Crawford receives his snippets of optional futures, I wouldn't like to change talents, thanks for asking. This future makes my entrails almost burst: I'm buried beneath a wave, a storm surge, a cataclysm of voices and emotions. They're everywhere. I cannot control anything, I'm weeping.

I'm whirling and I'm nothing. It's horrifying and relieving, this nano step from insanity.

I'm feeling as close to Farfarello as seldom before. I taste the Irishman's fatal illness and blood on my tongue, the way he relishes the Devil's fragrances in his mind.

I feel Crawford's strain of maintaining pristine and perfect Americanness in his ivory tower of neglect.

The starving void of Nagi's being: a fucking black hole, absolute antimatter.

The Devil's voice touches my thoughts again. "You're not in the position to negotiate. In fact, you're not even contemplating it for real, are you. Look, the development is only a matter of time. But I thought, maybe I should make some things more clear. Now I see it's wasted time." He snorts and stares at Farfarello's eye patch, adding like an occult afterthought: "Free will. That's total bullshit, I assure you." He rises and crushes his cig beneath a sharp heel on the flokati. Cinder reeks, he tips his imaginary hat. "It was a pleasure meeting you anyway, gentlemen. I have some flowers to procure, and heard about a nice litte shop around here. Adieu."

Then he's gone and we're alone again.

I look down at my hands and I'm holding nothing but crumbles of the Devil's cigarette in my hands drenched with tears and snot and sweat. I had forgotten to smoke it, and now it's too late.

This is war.

You are here to be destroyed.


End file.
